The old man stared bemusedly out his windows, at the expanse of his lawns and gardens, vainly trying to remember just what all happened. It looked like a massacre out there, the aftermath of The Battle of Agincourt. Bodies and clothing were strewn everywhere. There were food platters, and drink containers. (sniff) And was there still a whiff of that delightful herbal muscle relaxant in the air?
He vaguely recalled singing and dancing. Well, he hadn’t sung and danced, he was far too regal and restrained to do that, but his guests had. The revellers had revelled, and the troubadours had troubed, making sweet music. Was that a lute on his lawn? And over there, proud in its Stewart tartan, but looking bedraggled as only an unused one can, was a deflated set of bagpipes, the skirl of which still rang in his ears and in his soul. It was lying beside a guy in a plaid skirt, with skinny white legs and knobby knees. Had they let Erickson across the border?
He had sat on a raised dais, beatifically nodding his head and doing that foppish hand-wave thing that Queen Lizzy the Twoth had taught him. Presents were presented to him. Epic poems of his purity and honor were declaimed. High praises of him were sung out far and wide, and a good time was had by all! He had certainly had a good time, and he hoped – thought all his honored guests had too.
Some careless partiers had kicked away a few of the supports of his grumpy old curmudgeon facade, but he could quickly fix that, by putting up a couple of ranty posts. All in all, his many talented friends had combined to give him a most pleasant and enjoyable day. Hell, if he thought he could swing another party like that next year, he might even agree to turn 70.
A heartfelt thank you to one and all, for making yesterday a wonderful and memorable celebration.